Shock
by Melistborn
Summary: Episode 3x12 "3rd Life". Missing scenes that would have taken place after Reid witnessed the violent murder of the unsub, Ryan Phillips, by the victim's father, Jack Vaughn, in the high school bathroom. Reid's reaction to the traumatic turn of events and Hotch's attempt to help him through it.
1. Chapter 1

**Ever since I watched this episode, I can't help but feel robbed that we don't get to see more of Reid's reaction to the events that took place at the end. Please forgive me if I get some of the details wrong. I was recently introduced to Criminal Minds and am watching it for the first time right now. I'm still new to this fandom.**

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. Credit for those parts go to the writers and creators at CBS.**

–

_Jack. . . Your life has been, uh. . . It's been about violence, and if. . . you do this, Lindsey's will be, too. . . Do you want that? . . . When does it end, Jack? . . . When does it stop? _

_Tomorrow_

The shotgun fire sounded like an explosion in the small restroom. Reid winced, slamming his eyes closed, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing Ryan Phillips' head - what was left of it - snap backwards as his body flopped lifelessly to the ground.

When he opened his eyes the walls and fixtures around the body were splattered with dark red blood and brain matter, and a dark puddle was seeping out from under the stall where Ryan's upper torso had fallen. Somewhere in the back of Reid's mind a voice was screaming at him to move, to check on the victim, to take the murder weapon into evidence. But Reid's ears were ringing from the shotgun blast and all he could do was stand and stare with his mouth agape.

He heard the shotgun being set on the ground next to the body. Heard the man remove his daughters handcuffs. Heard him whispering reassurances as he guided her out of the bathroom and into the hallway. But it was as if Reid was experiencing it all from underwater. He couldn't take his eyes off the body of the young man he had tried and failed to save.

Reid didn't know how long he stood frozen that way. Part of him recognized that he was experiencing symptoms of shock, but right now his brain function seemed to be suspended. He was still staring unblinkingly at the corpse when the rest of his team arrived.

Morgan took off his sunglasses as he, Hotch, Rossi, and the local detective surveyed the gruesome scene.

"You okay, Reid?" Morgan asked, startling Reid out of his trance.

"I . . . I tr-tried," Reid's mouth wanted to respond but his mind was still reeling. He looked around at Hotch, Rossi and Morgan. His mouth was dry. He swallowed and tried again.

"I tried . . . but I-I couldn't . . . " he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Hotch turned to examined the body and Reid asked the only question he could think to ask.

"What's gonna happen to Jack?"

Jack Vaughn had just murdered an unarmed kid. True, the kid had been a 28-year-old criminal, and had definitely deserved justice. But had he really deserved to have his brains blown out with a shotgun? Jack had executed him right in front of his own daughter, right in front of Reid. And Reid hadn't stopped him.

"It depends," Rossi answered sourly, "On how important a 'witness' he is."

Rossi and Hotch exchanged a dark look, knowing that Jack's status as a State Witness was most likely going to protect this violent man from any consequences of the act he had just committed. He and his daughter would be relocated to another place and another life where they could start over, free and clear. Morgan laid a consoling hand on Reid's shoulder before he and Rossi silently followed the local detective out of the bathroom, leaving Hotch alone with Reid and the corpse.

—

"Reid?" Spencer looked up to meet Hotch's scrutinizing eyes. "I need you to tell me what happened."

"Jack had a shotgun." Reid began. "Ryan was on the ground pleading with Jack not to kill him. And Lyndsey . . . she kept telling Jack to do it. I thought I could convince him not to . . . I thought I could talk him down, but he . . . he just . . ."

"You did what you thought was best." Hotch responded gently.

"Did I?" Reid's hands were shaking now as he finally holstered his gun, and his voice was higher than normal. "I could have stopped him. I had the shot, but I didn't take it. If I'd shot Jack before he shot . . . before he . . ."

Reid swallowed and glanced at the body on the floor with unfocused eyes. His face paled even further. He looked back up at Hotch.

"I didn't take the shot."

Hotch frowned. "Spencer, you know this wasn't your fault. You know who Jack was. There wasn't anything anyone could have—"

"You would have taken the shot." Reid cut him off.

"You don't know that—"

"Morgan would have taken the shot! Emily would have taken the shot!" Reid's voice was rising.

"You aren't Morgan or Prentis," Hotch said calmly. "Nobody expected you to—"

But Reid wasn't really listening anymore.

"I didn't want to shoot him! Not in front of his daughter. I thought if I could just . . . just convince him to put down the gun. . ." A tear dripped onto Reid's hand and he was surprised to realize he was crying. He ran his hands over his face, struggling to regain his composure. "And it almost worked. . . I thought it was working. But then . . . I don't know what . . . everything happened so fast . . . I should have . . . but I didn't take the shot."

—

Hotch waited patiently for Reid to finish rambling. The kid was obviously in shock, and Hotch couldn't blame him. Hotch didn't have to be a profiler to see that the young doctor was clearly traumatized. While this wasn't the first time Reid had witnessed the unfortunate death of an unsub, Hotch suspected it was the first time he had witnessed a violent murder - not self-defense or suicide by cop or accidental death. Hotch wasn't surprised to see the tears on Reid's cheeks. He understood that it wasn't a display of weakness. This was a natural reaction to the type of emotionally charged situation Reid had just experienced. And he guessed, based on his gray complexion and the way Reid kept fidgeting and swallowing convulsively, that he was probably experiencing nausea, which was also completely understandable.

His suspicion was confirmed when Reid suddenly gagged and stumbled into one of the stalls. Hotch could hear him being violently sick. He decided to give Reid some privacy and stepped into the hallway in search of a water bottle.

He nearly ran into Prentis who was standing just outside the door holding a bottle of water and a pack of breath mints.

"How's Reid?" she asked.

"Upset. Traumatized." Hotch answered, taking the water bottle and mints. No doubt Rossi or Morgan had foreseen Reid's inevitable visceral reaction and sent Prentis with supplies. "He feels responsible."

"What happened in there?" Emily asked. "Morgan only said that Jack Vaughn killed our unsub but he didn't say . . ."

"Shotgun to the head at close range." Hotch answered the unasked question. Emily winced. "Reid was trying to talk him out of it."

"That sounds like Reid," said Emily. "So what went wrong?"

"It didn't work." Hotch answered quickly, breaking off the conversation as Reid pushed open the bathroom door, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He still looked pale and shaky, but seemed to be recovering.

"You okay?" Emily asked, as Hotch handed Reid the water bottle.

"Yeah. No, I'm fine" Reid answered, a little too confidently. "Just ate something that didn't agree with me, I guess." He uncapped the water with trembling fingers and took a drink.

Hotch could tell that Emily didn't buy the flimsy lie, but shot her a look that stopped her from challenging it. He knew Reid was trying to avoid appearing weak in front of the team.

"Okay. . . Good, then." She responded lamely, glancing quizzically back at Hotch.

Reid wasn't fooling anyone. He wasn't fine, and probably wouldn't be for a while. But if he needed to pretend to be okay in order to get through the coming days and weeks Hotch wasn't going to stop him. He was, however, going to keep a close eye on him. He wasn't about to let Reid fall back into old habits.

"Ready to go, Pretty Boy?" Morgan asked. He was tactful enough not to comment on Reid's disheveled appearance or earlier behavior.

"Yes." Reid gave Morgan a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes, which were still red-rimmed and horrified.

Together with JJ and Rossi, the team strolled out into the bright sunlight and climbed into their black SUVs.

No, Reid was not okay. But he would be. Hotch would make sure if it.

–

**Author's Note: I'm not sure if this story is complete, or not. Part of me wants to follow Reid for a few more hours or days or weeks and see how he copes with the trauma. I remember that there are hints in the following few episodes that he is not coping well. But, at the same time, there are so many other episodes that I feel inspired to write about. I guess we'll see. **


	2. Chapter 2

The night after the case, Reid wet the bed.

He'd revisited the high school bathroom in his nightmare, watched helplessly as Ryan Phillips plead for his life, and had been startled awake by the shotgun blast only to find himself lying in a spreading puddle of warm urine. Even though he was alone in his apartment, his face had burned with shame. He'd silently stripped off his ruined clothes before gathering the wet bedding and placing it all into the laundry basket. Then he'd spent the rest of the night on the couch, nodding off every so often only to jerk awake in a panic every time the gun went off.

Throughout the following week Reid experienced the nightmare over and over, each time with slight variations. Sometimes Reid was the one on the bathroom floor with the shotgun aimed at his head. Sometimes he was the one holding the shotgun. Once the entire situation played out at his mother's mental institution where Diana clutched Jack Vaughn's arm and begged him to murder Spencer. That one had resulted in Spencer dry heaving into his bedroom trash-can for several minutes after the gun went off.

By the following weekend, Reid was at his wit's end. Not only was he suffering from sleep deprivation, but he had also thrown himself into his work at the BAU as a means of distracting himself, which left him physically and mentally exhausted. He felt that he had done well to keep up appearances and hoped none of his teammates guessed he had turned into a tortured insomniac. Coffee and dark circles under the eyes were nothing unusual for Reid. But as the weekend approached, Reid's mind felt strung out, and his body was jittery from the increased coffee consumption. He needed sleep, but no matter what he tried he couldn't remain unconscious long enough for it to do him any good before being awoken by the blast of a shotgun and the dull thud of a lifeless body hitting the floor.

A week ago, Reid wouldn't have considered the Tobias Hankel method of escape. But going on seven days of no sleep and horrific, gut-churning nightmares, Reid found his resolve weakening. Maybe he could take just enough "medication" to allow himself one good night's sleep, just enough to help him think clearly again. He knew it was the sleep deprivation influencing his mind, but it was starting to sound like a reasonable plan. Reid noticed that he was scratching his left arm absentmindedly and forced himself to stop. Too tired to change into pajamas, Reid simply stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers and climbed onto his bed. He seemed to lay there for an eternity both fighting and wishing for sleep before he finally slipped away.

Thirty minutes later Reid woke up screaming. Jack Vaugh had blown off Ryan Phillips' head before turning the gun on Spencer. Bitter tears streamed down Reid's cheeks as he reached for the nearest object - a book on Greek architecture - and hurled it across the room. This wasn't fair! What was the point of staying clean when it meant he couldn't sleep, couldn't even function like a normal human being? And what would happen when this sleep deprivation started affecting his work? Could he really afford to keep going like this if his inability to think clearly resulted in the loss of innocent lives? Reid finally pulled on a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt before slipping into his Converse. His last thought as he left his apartment was that he needed to find some Dilaudid or he needed to find some help, and he'd take whichever he could find first.

—

"Reid?" Hotch pulled open his front door to see the silhouette of a young man with long, messy hair hastily retreating back down his front steps toward the street.

Reid froze when the porch light flickered on before turning around to look at Hotch, squinting as his eyes tried to adjust to the change in brightness.

"What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?" Hotch asked sleepily.

"1:27 am." Reid answered automatically.

"Is everything all right?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm fine, actually." The way Reid mindlessly scratched at his left forearm didn't go unnoticed by Hotch. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Are you sure? Why don't you come inside and we can talk," Hotch suggested.

"No, that's okay," Reid tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I really am sorry I woke you up. It's nothing. I, um . . . I'll see you Monday."

Reid's mouth was saying one thing, but his behavior was telling a completely different story. He had a slightly manic look about him, even though he was doing his best to act normal. His hands were trembling and his eyes were bloodshot. Hotch thought he might know what this was about, but hoped he was wrong.

"Come inside," Hotch gently invited again.

"Haley and Jack—"

"—are staying with Haley's mother tonight. It's fine. What did you need?"

"I just couldn't sleep," Reid said, trying to sound casual. He tucked his hair behind his ear again.

"Spencer," Hotch waited until Reid looked up to meet his eyes. The pain he saw there seemed to confirm his worst fears. "Please come inside."

Reid's shoulders sagged and he nodded in defeat. He hesitantly walked back up the steps and through the door Hotch was holding open.

"Did you know that every year 25% of Americans experience acute insomnia, but 75% of those people are able to recover without developing chronic or persistent insomnia?" Reid rattled off, as Hotch turned on the living room lamps and sat down on the couch.

"Is that so?" Hotch said indicating that Reid should take a seat.

Reid sat but didn't continue or elaborate. He seemed to have lost his train of thought. Hotch made a mental note of that red flag. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Hotch spoke up.

"Do you want to tell me why you're here?"

"I, uh. . . I haven't really been able to sleep," Reid answered slowly, looking at his hands. "Sometimes I fall asleep for a few hours, but I keep having the same nightmare. It wakes me up."

"You've had nightmares before." Hotch stated.

"Not like this." Reid replied.

"How long has this been going on?" Hotch asked, already guessing the answer.

"Since Chula Vista," Reid admitted.

Hotch nodded, understanding what Reid was referring to. He'd wondered how the doctor was coping with the traumatic violence he'd witnessed. Apparently he had his answer.

"Have you talked to anyone about it?" Hotch asked. "A therapist or doctor or . . ."

But Hotch could read the answer in Reid's face. Reid wouldn't be here in his living room at 1:30 in the morning if he had been able to find the help he needed elsewhere. Hotch changed tactics.

"Do you want to tell me about the nightmare? It might help."

Reid shook his head. "I just want to forget." He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if trying to block out the memory. "I feel like I'm going crazy, Hotch. I can't sleep, I can barely keep any food down, I wet my bed—"

Reid broke off looking embarrassed, but Hotch didn't react. He just waited patiently for Reid to go on.

When Reid didn't continue, Hotch asked the question he knew he needed to ask.

"Are you using Dilaudid again?"

"What?! No!" Reid's head snapped up to look at Hotch.

"But you're thinking about it," Hotch guessed.

There was a long pause.

"Yes," Reid's voice was trembling.

"That's why you're here."

Spencer nodded, eyes swimming with unshed tears.

Hotch sighed in relief. He was glad to have definitive confirmation that Reid had quit using the drug, but was equally concerned by the erratic behavior the doctor was exhibiting now.

"Spencer," Hotch began, "you know you can't start using again. I kept it off the record the first time but we both know I can't do that again. And I don't have to tell you what it would mean for your career at the BAU if you—"

"—I know." Reid interrupted, throwing up his hands in frustration and rising to his feet. "I know all that. You think I don't know? I have an IQ of 187. I'm not stupid, Hotch."

"I know you're not stupid." Hotch assured him. "But right now I don't know if you are thinking rationally."

"Stop profiling me! I'm not an unsub!" Reid was shouting. "What do you want me to say? You want me to tell you about the nightmare? Fine! I'm standing in the Mayford High bathroom watching Ryan Phillips' head get blown off. Is that what you want to hear?!"

"Spencer . . ." Hotch tried to break in but Reid wasn't finished.

"And there's not a damn thing I can do about it, Hotch, because I can't stop seeing it!" Reid clawed at his face, sounding slightly hysterical. "I remember every detail, every word with perfect clarity: the look on Jack's face right before he pulled the trigger, and the way Phillips was begging Jack to put the gun down, and the sound of sirens outside the school, and the smell of urine when the kid died, and the taste of bile in the back of my mouth, and . . . It's like a video on repeat every time I fall asleep. I can't take it anymore!"

Reid finally took a deep breath and Hotch could see him deflating. He sat back down on the sofa.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just so tired." Reid said, wrapping his arms protectively around his middle. "I haven't . . . um, you know . . . taken anything in like nine months. Not since I promised Gideon I would stop. But I keep remembering how it felt, how it used to make me go to sleep. And tonight I thought . . .I don't know . . . I just want to forget."

"Were you experiencing cravings before the Chula Vista case?" Hotch asked

"Actually, it isn't uncommon for patients that have been prescribed narcotics to present with-"

"Reid," Hotch cut him off, giving him a look of warning.

"Not like this." Reid finally said. "Not since the initial withdrawal symptoms stopped. I was better. I mean, I thought I was getting better. I could ignore the cravings most of the time. But now . . ."

"Have you considered a 12 step program?" Hotch asked. "There are anonymous groups for agents who are struggling with addiction. We wouldn't have to report it. You aren't the first to face this type of situation."

"Oh, so there are other agents that were kidnapped, drugged, and tortured for two days by a delusional, psychopathic, serial killer with multiple personalities?" Reid shot back sarcastically.

"No, but you're not the first agent to develop an unwanted drug habit because of the work he or she does in the line of duty," Hotch said, trying to impress upon Reid the seriousness of the suggestion. "I think you'd be surprised."

"Those groups are for addicts." Reid stated, rubbing his left arm. "I'm not an addict. I had a problem for a little while, but I took care of it and now I'm fine."

Hotch raised an eyebrow. He wanted to point out that nothing he had seen or heard tonight indicated that Reid was "fine," but he didn't push the subject.

"Just think about it." Hotch replied. "In the meantime, why don't you spend the night here tonight?"

"I don't want to impose," Reid protested, but Hotch wasn't about to let him leave in this mental and emotional state.

"It's not a problem. Like I said, Haley and Jack are out of town and I could use some company. Let me make up the guest room for you."

"I don't mind the couch," Reid yawned, folding his arms and laying his head against the armrest. "It's not like I'm going to be sleeping much, anyway. Plus I'm meeting Garcia for breakfast in the morning, so I can't stay for long."

Hotch handed Reid a blanket and pillow that Haley kept hidden under the couch for impromptu naps and movie nights. After a few minutes he appeared to be drifting off, but as Hotch stood up to leave he felt a hand grip his arm.

"Hotch, will you stay with me? Just for tonight? I, um. . . I don't want to be alone." Reid's voice broke on the last word. Hotch met Spencer's pleading eyes and saw the silent tears finally spilling down the young man's face, making a wet patch on the pillow. Something about the look in his eyes reminded Hotch forcefully of Jack.

"I'll stay for as long as you need me," Hotch whispered, sitting back down next to Reid.

Suddenly it was as if a dam broke within the young doctor. Reid squeezed his eyes closed, but it did little to stop the tears that were now falling fast and steady down his cheeks. His lanky frame trembled beneath the blanket as he drew shuddering breaths, finally letting the pain and sorrow and worry consume him.

Hotch instinctively took the hand that was still gripping his arm, enclosing it protectively within his own hands. The hand reacted immediately, latching on as if Hotch were a life-line. Hotch wanted to tell Reid that everything was going to be alright, that these emotions were completely normal, that it gets better with time. But the lump in his throat prevented him from voicing anything. Instead he ran his thumb back and forth across the back of Reid's hand, hoping to convey empathy without intruding upon his friend's grief.

Only when he heard the anguished sobs turn into gentle, even breathing did Hotch finally allow his own eyes to close and let sleep overtake him.

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and encouragement. I couldn't get this chapter out of my head and finally gave in and decided to write it down. I hope it works as well on paper as it did in my mind. I don't think it is too far fetched to think that Hotch would plant the idea of a NA group, even if Reid doesn't take the advice right away. But at this point I don't see this story going any further, since we get Elephant's Memory a few episodes later. **

**Also, I am about halfway through Season 8 (watching for the first time) and I've been told I'll be getting some new Reid material to write about soon. So there might be more where this came from.**


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